"gapped" poems
What is the space between,
enclosing us in one
united person, yet
dividing each alone.
Frail bridges cross from eye
to eye, from flesh to flesh,
from word to word: the net
is gapped at every mesh,
and this each human knows:
however close our touch
or intimate our speech,
silences, spaces reach
most deep, and will not close.
2.8k
**** you.
All of your
b r o k e n
promises,
And stupid lies.
I sat there many nights, calling
And wondering where you were.
I hoped that you were with your friends.
But, God, I knew you were with her.
You smelt like her when you sat by me
And the floors creaked Cheater, Cheater
I thought that I would get over it,
But then I was able to see her.
Greasy face, and stringy hair,
Oh my, is that the best you could do?
But those yellow gapped teeth come back to me,
I guess she deserves you.
So you left and went to her
And I thought it was because of me.
Is it wrong that I can't stop laughing?
You're betrayal has given me glee.
She ****** another in his bed,
While you waited around for her.
So I guess the sides have been turned.
Tell me, Darling, does it hurt?
So, Sweetheart, with the fire red hair,
Whose name makes my stomach churn,
Tell me, did you ever think that
A ginger boy could burn?
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
Of course
when your southern tipped - tongue
drips out the words
"I want to move up north"
everyone whose roots
reach deep below the belt
of the Mason Dixon
will ****** your face
in their gaze
and warn you bout
that Northern Disregard.
But don't listen to their tales
of discarded homeless
people plastered cross pavement.
Tell them bout those
who find home amongst
the clutter of 125th
with warm eyes
that search the cold
looking for laugh lines
and loose change.
Tell them
how they maintain
an open hand
good for grasping
and an open mouth
good for un-gourging
their gapped - toothed grins
of wisdom.
You tell them
that these people
with the wrinkles
of a wise man
may not have much
but they share
what they got.
You tell them
that no matter
where we're from
we've all got a little
Southern Hospitality
stained in our smiles.
Tell them
that you'll be fine
and pray you're right.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 3:04 PM UTC
a decapitated dog put on too many sticks to reach out and bite a child who only wanted to play with a soft touch and gapped holed grin.
the lights go out when you can´t know when, say yes to hold lights for when ´when´ happens ¨you can trip and fall¨.
glasses melted with fire to become bigger for a bigger head are still to dark to wear in shadow.
tilted camera you stare with a corked head curious to what goes on behind me, won´t you look my way instead.
dragonfly warrior poorly protecting his flourescent queen from the onslaught of molecules in a world filled with air, with air, with air, air, air.
the volume of speakers are controlled by tiny gods moving their tiny fingers, just a littly bit louder my dear.
can you remember when landline telephones were used, I remember circle dials and zero always took the longest, when did phone get rid of tele?
white flowers and white hanging sheets with yellow sun bolts raining on a clear sky shout with thunder from a noisless wind, I wear earphones tonight.
trees dance better then me, plants taste better then me, pianos sound better then me, me is better then me, we´re equals.
fat cat dreams of being skinny, he wears eye liner on weekdays and thongs on the weekends.
sometimes yoga makes me feel like a woman who feels **** then yoga makes me think what that thought means?
rocks are hot when heated.
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 6:41 AM UTC
Another drunk poem between headphones, static & blank screens
surround me
Awoke in the morning with a gamblers smile, like seagulls flocking,
resting, gliding
Broken, crushed, words like quiet jokes until that last whisper under
***** sheets in a cheap motel
Yet we sip our poison and smoke our cancer, brothers and friends crammed
into closeness
Smiles spent on the eyes of those to lovely to smile back, yet their
hearts were warmed
By gapped tooth grins and young men with dirt under
bitten fingernails
Last night the headlights behind me made silver halos
in the mist
As I walked down gravel roads with mud stuck everywhere, my
constant companion
Some days I forget I’m human, that I exist, sitting in the passenger seat,
watching the world run by
Two kids with backpacks and a stray cat, asked them where they were heading,
“Hitchhiking to nowhere..”
Nowhere sounds about right right now, looking at the
state of things
A place of fragrant trees and uncut grasses, stones unturned and
clear running streams
The broken limestone memories of my childhood call
to me
Not much left of that anymore, just fragments like a
smashed tooth
Can’t even think some days, easier not to I think, easier to let
it all pass by
I saw a darkness today, and I closed my eyes to try for
light
Standing under rusty bridges, flicking dead embers
away
Between blue lines on the page I spill thoughts like
spoilt milk
Scribbles and scratches, wasted and unwanted, lost between
memories
Memories I claim, not sure if they’re even mine
anymore
Twenty two years old with a death wish by thirty
Dots and lines, a splash of smiles and laughter, stains
in the carpet
And we sit here like corpses, the two of us, cigarette butts between
twitching fingers
Stilled by the last exhale, the moment between
inaction and locomotion
Our still waters stirred, clear blue skies filled with rain clouds, still
blue above them
Your room, surrounded by rooms full of people, washing dishes or
watching their dreams die on T.V. screens
None of that matters to me, just your breath and hearing your voice for a second
before sleep takes over
I left a note in that book you told me you’d read, guess you
never got around to it
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 12:42 PM UTC
I saw this War Veteran on his porch yelling at this Hipster Kid who was tethered to his fence across the generational gapped front lawn, yelling back at him. And I mean, they got into it.
The kid wasn't doing anything really, just taking alternate swigs of foamy PBR and flat Red Bull and chucking the cans into the vet's unkempt garden, retorting Dylan lyrics and sentiments of Kerouac like the post-modern beatnik he was.
I couldn't make out what the Old Vet was saying. His voice was missing from probably smoking too many Benson & Hedges Black down in the trenches. I know he must have been saying something uncalled for, though, to get this Kid so riled up like that.
I'm not sure what they were arguing about since I awoke right in the middle of this altercation, hanging upside down on a bench in the park across the street. I suppose I'll just wait until the Vet goes back inside so I can go over and release the Kid and ask him what that was all about.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 9:31 AM UTC
I was a little girl yesterday morning,
With a flash of red hair and a gap-toothed grin
Laughing and playing on the swing at my favorite park.
I was a confused pre-teen that afternoon,
Scraping her knees on jagged insults
Holding in tears for secret bathroom visits
Where she would push her fingers
Into her throat and
Pray on her knees that her lunch would
Reappear like a magic trick.
I was a scared teenager by evening,
Kissing girls and running away from
The demons in my head with voices
That sounded like my mother’s.
By midnight I was on the floor shaking,
Back to twenty, back to who I am now
Wishing those past me’s would understand that I needed
Something more.
Yet this morning I sat up in my bed and greeted the sun with a
Flash of red hair and a close-gapped grin
And I am here now,
Here remembering, being present and
Knowing who I was
Ten years ago twelve years ago fifteen years ago five minutes ago
Is exactly who I needed to be,
Doing exactly what I needed to do.
Scraping my knees and elbows
And pushing my finger down my throat
And feeling ugly all the time,
That’s not what I needed but it’s
Who I was Who I couldn’t stop being because I
Didn’t know how. In my mind,
I am not
That little girl, that preteen, that teenager I am me.
I am
Bumping and bruising and
Breaking, sometimes, along the way but this
Is where I stand.
And those past selves stand
Hand-in-hand somewhere along
The equator of my brain
Like paper dolls unfolded
Through my history.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 6:10 PM UTC
1. in the grand scheme of things, he’s the trees and I’m the river and the stones are always, always covered in blood
2. he keeps looking at me over his shoulder and I don’t know if it’s because he knows I’m lying or if he’s checking to see that I’m still alive
3. he told me I was a god, some free and ruthless and holy thing and I told him he was the sun and we’re both waiting on the test results to see who won
4. he smiles like an animal, too much teeth, gapped and bleeding, too much dirt stuck to his gums, lips sticky and eyes burning holes into me
5. I never thought I’d be afraid of the way the light hits the earth, quietly and all at once, but I am and it feels like I should be on my knees and praying to something I know doesn’t exist for me
6. in the grand scheme of things, neither of us is a bird or fragile or something precious to hold onto, and both of us know this, which makes it worse
7. he isn’t some winged holy thing
8. he hung the stars and told me how lovely I was in the lighting
9. he put a gun in his mouth until I could taste the sting of it, metal coating my insides, until I was the one bleeding iron bullets
10. he handed me his plastinated heart and told me to swallow it whole so I did
11. he said a lot of things and I mostly don’t remember them because I was too busy knitting us together at the seams of our broken bones, two skeletons in the same grave, some kind of poetic fate
12. or, that’s how I’ll say it happened
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC
Walking in.
In hand, a pink/brown suitcase.
Wearing an orca suit.
Doesn't matter why.
Dark auditorium.
Millions of thumb faces.
Smudged away by the painter.
Stumbling up and down the seats.
Sitting in one.
Getting Up
Moving to another.
All of the sudden in the front row.
Watching the spectacle.
At hand & on stage.
Too bright to actually see.
Just a white sun spot.
Then everyone is waiting.
Women are called on stage.
They are beautiful.
One by one they step up.
The wood floor is worn & polished.
And then they say my name.
And I stand up.
I'm in a tight red dress.
I tip toe to the stage.
All the thumb faces are silent.
Relaxed & unfocused.
I stand there, feeling the end of a joke.
And they clap and we smile.
I'm in between Ellen and Madonna.
Suddenly, every one is gone.
And we leave the stage.
Behind the scene.
Everything is concrete.
Obsolete.
Madonna looks at me.
And I feel myself swallow any hope,
Of an ego.
Eradicated, I know she thinks I'm nothing.
I run to the small bathroom mirror.
My two front teeth are gapped.
Bent inward.
Tears spills out from my eyes and down my face.
I run into the alley and look around.
I remember I left my suitcase where I was sitting.
Back at my seat, everyone is gone.
My suitcase is open and empty.
All my clothes are mixed up with things on the floor.
I slowly gather them.
As the the janitor man applies lipstick,
The movie star mirror looking back.
I walk to the front.
Heels clicking.
A man with long black hair is waiting.
'Why didn't you get my suitcase?'
'I don't know.'
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 12:18 PM UTC
Life has the tendency to feel like a prozac commercial,
the reality that everything either pops or goes up in the air.
I see my little sister's gapped smile, in the soapy reflection-
her joy should be infectious, but it spreads guilt like a plague
to my already tortured mind.
I feel so guilty,
for wanting to take my life.
Jul 23, 2019
Jul 23, 2019 at 10:15 PM UTC
I wouldn't mind kissing your chapped lips
or touching elbows late at night.
We could spin the world away
and sing about the lipless.
I'd vaccum my room to get rid of the smell
and then we could lay there until our thoughts settle,
or I could make you tea, promising not to spit in the cup.
I don't know if you like sugar or not,
but I do, so I'll put it in anyway.
I know you don't like apples,
oranges, babies, hairy legs,
stair cases, dark tunnels,
neon colors, highlighted hair,
leftovers, or gapped teeth.
I know you like milk,
dark hair, movies (almost any),
games, poetry, dancing,
singing, my hands (touching yours),
and eye contact.
I only have 6 dollars,
3 pills, 4 cigarettes,
5 fingers (on each hand),
2 eyes, and 1 interest.
Sep 5, 2010
Sep 5, 2010 at 12:00 PM UTC
The night came into me,
In its entirety and immorality.
Like death,
Like rain,
Greeted me as an old friend,
Wearing stars that couldn't shine bright enough,
And clouds that couldn't cry loud enough.
The happening of its sky— gapped glowing lilac,
It's vibrations rip through the meadow of my happening.
Breathes were still — mine and hers
Between heaves of storm
And a moment of silence,
Then wind began to blow.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 4:29 PM UTC
i’ll be your girl for the night. i like throwing myself into the careless, wandering hands of degenerates every once in a while. you’re throwing up in your hat in the back of a gypsy cab. the driver keeps stopping every 30 feet. he’s sweet about it, passing you napkins. i’m trying hard not to laugh but it’s sneaking out through the gapped fingers over my mouth. it’s 4:30 and we’ve been both been drinking so much and know nothing of each other but we’re having fun and i can’t feel my feet or my brain or really anything. 30 something year old men leaning towards me behind pool tables while you’re in the bathroom. “can i kiss you?” i don’t really know how to respond so i laugh out of nervousness and shrug and kinda pace around the table. “is that your man?” he says. the pool stick is so sticky, covered in beer and weird hand oils and god knows whatever else. i lean over the green felt, pretend to comprehend angles and geometry and try to elongate my body as best i can. girls and pool tables are all very ****** and what not.
i can’t stop laughing in the back of that cab and you can’t stop saying sorry
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 4:41 PM UTC
inspired by Gertrude Stein
Wood turns hard and shows its spaces. This is less convincing. If it spoke more no one would listen. It is solid and we don’t fall through. It reminds there is no remembering.
The pieces don’t touch, just spaces and they are put together. This is what is done without thinking and we still remember. If something is seen and nothing more than that, it should seem normal and grey.
A flag is innocent and spreads. Its colors don’t move and are divided and smoke pulls off more. If it is done where the whole is partial, leave the tab.
The grey, the color grey, needs nothing more and never asks of anything.
Overalls can be hard, where wool socks are underrated and tired. It stays this way.
How can something so gapped hold calmly? Not because there was a touching, but because of something less. The blanket is blue and grey and holds if nothing more than that.
If hands are obvious, if hands are obvious and touching and hard, still no one listens. If hands are obvious and so is wood, there is nothing more.
Blue is guaranteed. Blue is guaranteed and so static, but ready.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
I miss myself.
Not me now,
but before.
Before I grew older,
and learned awful things.
Before I stopped wearing sundresses,
and pigtails in my hair.
I miss the me that didn't fall apart like glass.
I miss the me that didn't have false hope
that everything would get better.
I miss the me that didn't run from her problems.
I want the me who wanted to stand on the sun,
and reach for the clouds.
I want the me who only cried over a dropped ice cream cone,
or a broken toy.
I want the me who always smiled wide enough,
that you could see her tongue through her gapped teeth.
I want to be what I was.
I want to be happy.
I want to not care what others think.
I want to not be rocks at the bottom of the lake.
I long not to be myself.
I long to be the version that people liked,
and wanted.
May 13, 2025
May 13, 2025 at 12:14 PM UTC
I've been thirsting to burst your bubble since
I heard the low-down we may be over-
supplied with a green-backed bird called Money,
that trollop spread-wide by aliases
*A mark, a yen, a buck or a pound
A buck or a pound, a buck or a pound*
To a layman's ears unlearned in the fine-
tuned registers of glib-tongued financiers,
it may ring up as reason to cheer with
no tinkling of trouble, but if Money
*Is all that makes the world go around
that clinking, clanking sound* (they do say)
She sings, clangs a bit hollow when she clings
too heavy in alms of poorly wrung hands,
it's then well-heeled sit'n spins'll turn us about
to the golden-gapped beams of bankers mouths
*For Money makes the world go around
The world go around, the world go around*
And will till johns who hold little put less
stock in the **** pitches of slick-macking
daddy Street with his tricky fat pay backs
for the ounce of love he's flouncing to sell.
May 12, 2010
May 12, 2010 at 11:06 PM UTC
unpleasant gestures fill the room with tense passion
why do you do it and how does it work
my sorrow is great undetermined to whom
answers untold will linger and lurk
accused of the truth stops me in my tracks
questions firing but the answer still lacks
should i come clean
or should I stay on my track
my mind kept locked by the way shell react
stuttering for time
stuttering for you
i enter my mind searching for a clue
my awaiting epiphany hides in discretion
until the bridge is gapped for the end of suppression
but the overpass gives out from the absence of speech
and my conscience will slowly be unwound and breached
truth, like water flows over my bridge
carrying the broken pieces over my figurative ridge
as the truth rushes through it brings with it remains
of the untold lie that will soon be named
or perhaps renamed as my self proclaimed title
is that how you see me
thats not who i am
youre blinded by hate
my lie started little
but ended too great
so dont drowned in my river
charge at it with force
swim through it with trust
and open the doors
............
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 1:26 AM UTC
whispered from a far
fairwell, gentle knight
quedar en silencio
que le traera
si a ella no desea
pianga, pianga
le fleuve ne s'arrête pas
the willow set fire
on itself
three feathers blown
via
via
va via
shattered mirror
eres ella
the spell of the tower
trois plumes
il suo cuore
a willow
drowning
dans le tourbillon
whispered from a far
fairwell, gentle knight
it was but
the waves
haleter de papillons
delusion
whispered from a far
fairwell, gentle knight
she is
nowhere
erronée
ma credente
endless road to
a dock in a bay
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 1:44 PM UTC
I am the cascade rain
of chivalrous knights
and bubbling veins.
The gap you mind
and overstep,
The mind that’s gapped
without repent.
Yet the lake reflects a smile
and bellows out broadly
in the broken streams of Nile
in the thoughts of this, a while.
Feb 17, 2021
Feb 17, 2021 at 6:14 AM UTC
kiss me like the plague
hands of the sea
fingers an armada
kiss me with your barb wire lips
your lipstick's like a curse
crooked teeth and gapped
your smile like a hearse
kiss me with pink scars on your drop dead skin
(lead me to your slaughter)
thighs spun into spider silk
(I’ll be your sacrificial lamb)
1 pint water
3 drops mother’s milk
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 10:45 PM UTC
Miriam and I
were sitting next
to each other
on the coach
through Paris
she laid her head
on my shoulder
it was night
lit up by the City's lights
have you heard
of Kant's moral argument?
I asked her
who the **** is Kant?
she said looking
up at me through
half-open eyes
German philosopher
I said
he said that that if
moral behaviour is rational
then moral behaviour
can only be rational
if justice will be done
and justice can only be done
if Gods exists
therefore God exists
she sighed
so if God doesn't exist
then moral behaviour
is not rational?
she said
is that what he means?
I guess so
I said
she closed her eyes
and I looked at her
red hair curly and wavy
and planted a kiss
on her head
a Beethoven piano concerto
was playing over
the coach radio speakers
soft slow movement
the keyboard being tinkled
by some one's fingers
I looked down at her
lying there
her tee-shirt gapped
and I saw the crevice
between her small *******
her small hands
in her lap
I lay my head
on her head gently
and closed my eyes too
what else could
a sleepy guy do?
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 9:33 AM UTC
We thread the wide gapped steel
With chemically dipped points
The fluoro carbons the distance
With near zero stretch
We braid our thoughts to tungsten
Then peg our weight immobile
Flip Flip Flip all day
Between the weeds and pads
Ever present presence fine tuned
To any tick upon the line
Snap ! Big one
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 9:25 PM UTC